Mare Photies on Friday Night!

Friday 10.45 p.m.

                           The camera has a flash thing button, so the bottom photie of the candle in the hut, as the night was falling, is discernible. I wanted it not to work when I was taking the photie of the windaes, but it seemed not to switch off. Someone at the party I was at last weekend told me she liked the photies on this blog, and anyone saying they like this blog, or even the photies on this blog, I find that highly embarrassing because I can't take photies and I canny work the camera. They never tell me they like my books because they never read them, but I can write books. Some folk will hate them and some folk will like them, and the last thing I want to do is read one of them, but ...

                            The fecking photies of the first tattie leaf to appear is blurred because, as Mary Queen of Scots advised, you should go back a bit, but if you go back a bit, you don't get the photie you want. I don't like deleting the photies and only sticking in the good ones because the photies aren't really photies, they're what I was looking at ... at the time. I'm the Jack Kerouac of photies except, like Jack, it's not completely spontaneous and there were two photies the same as the one at the bottom as I was trying to work the flash thing and I didn't stick both in the bloggy.

                            After getting back from the hut, I went to the off licence and bought two cans of Grolsch and a bottle of twelve percent plonko collapso. (The cans are squoshed now and the bottle is half way down )  This is my dose these days. 

                             My nephew is in Bahrain just now. I hope he watches the Formula One race on the teevee and doesn't go out to watch the riots, which is what an idiot like me would do. I think we stand on our high ground and condemn regimes that do horrible things as if we were wonderful, and we are wonderful, and we should condemn these regimes, but we are fortunate creatures, those of us who live in the beautiful, wonderful city, and can sit in our huts, and I don't imagine that the great buddha, Lama Yeshe Losal, knows my name, but when I go down there on the 2nd of March, if he sees me, he will recognise me ... probably as that stupid, drunken basturn who could have had it all, but couldn't even spend one night alone after sitting in the hut without hitting the off-licence again, and wanting the wrong things is easy, and comfortable, but ... grief, sorrow, lamentations ... disillusionment, disappointment and despair ... suffering in this life is what you get from walking that kind of walk. 

                              I watched some of Piers Morgan interviewing Frank Bruno tonight. I love Frank Bruno. I went to see him in a cinema in Glasgow when he was fighting Iron Mike at four in the morning, and I went there with Shiva, whom I also love but don't see much of these days. When I saw his daughters, it reminded me of seeing Daso's sisters, kind of brown and deeply gorgeous, one night when I visited his family home just before we went off in the caravanette.